by Anne O'Brien
Mrs Stamford busied herself ringing the bell and informed Marcle of their needs. Then settled herself into a chair. Henry stood with his back to the fire, determined to hear her out and make his escape as quickly as possible.
‘I have a confession to make, my lord.’
Not another! He stifled a sigh and raised his brows in polite enquiry.
As he cast a glance down at her, his attention was caught for the first time by her appearance. She was uncomfortable in his presence, not at ease. A deep line was engraved between her brows and she worried at her bottom lip with her teeth. She anticipated this conversation with even less pleasure than did he. A sharp suspicion crossed his mind.
‘Did Eleanor send you?’ he asked bluntly.
‘Eleanor? No!’ He imagined that she shuddered as a cold chill swept her skin. ‘Eleanor knows nothing of this.’
‘So. Tell me of this urgent matter, ma’am, which cannot possibly wait until tomorrow.’
They fell silent as a footman entered and positioned the tea tray on a small table to Mrs Stamford’s right, placing the tea caddy at her left.
‘Eleanor is very unhappy,’ Mrs Stamford stated when they were once more alone, as if she had learned her words during the long wait through the afternoon. ‘So are you, my lord, if I may presume to comment.’ Lord Henry’s gaze sharpened, but he forbore to reply. She had, it appeared, more sensitivity than he had previously given her credit for. ‘I do not know the reason.’ She held up her hand as she sensed his interruption. ‘I know. It is not my concern. But I should tell you what I did. I think that I must. One moment, my lord.’
She opened the silken strings of her reticule and searched its contents, producing eventually four folded sheets. Clearly letters.
‘I am not proud of this, but you have given such generous service to my daughter. And there is such unhappiness between you. You deserve to know the truth. And I think it would be wrong if this event from the past should cause further dissension between yourself and Eleanor. I think it casts a long shadow.’ She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘I think these speak for themselves, my lord.’
She held them out.
He took them without a word, turned them in his hands. He knew what they were, did not need to read the inscriptions. There were two letters in his bold hand, curled and much travel worn. Two were in Eleanor’s writing, as clean and neatly folded as the day they had been written.
‘You intercepted them.’ It was a statement, not a question. Suddenly everything was very clear, inscribed with diamond brightness, the answer to all his questions and doubts.
‘I did. I do not deny it.’ Her eyes for the first time made contact with his, a challenge in their depths, daring him to condemn her, much as her daughter had done over the paternity of her child. ‘I would probably do it again tomorrow in the same circumstances. Any mother would. I did not want Eleanor to commit herself to you—a younger son—and a risky life in the colonies. She was so young and I knew so little of you…so I intercepted the letters. Eleanor’s never left the house. It was so simple—and Eleanor was so trustingly naïve. It was an easy matter to bribe her maid into handing them over. And equally simple to prevent yours from ever falling into Eleanor’s hands. That was the reason she never joined you when you left the country. She believed that you had never written to her, had forgotten her, or deliberately rejected her.’
‘As I believed that she had rejected me.’ His voice held a weight of sadness.
‘Yes, my lord.’
He turned the letters again in his hands, reading Eleanor’s clear inscription of his name. Mrs Stamford awaited his response.
‘Did you read them?’ he asked finally.
‘No.’ Mrs Stamford flushed at the implied criticism. ‘You might give me credit for some honour in my dealings with my daughter.’
‘Why should I? You have no idea how much grief and pain you caused by your actions. Nor the present repercussions from your ill-judged decision.’
‘Perhaps not.’
‘Were you not aware of how much unhappiness you caused your daughter? How could you do it to her?’
‘I knew. But I believed that she would forget.’ Mrs Stamford raised her shoulders in elegant dismissal of her fault. ‘Eleanor would soon meet someone else who would prove to be a respectable husband.’
‘I blamed her, you know. And she blamed me. It has caused so much bitterness between us. How could you justify that to yourself, if you loved her?’ Mrs Stamford had the grace to flinch from Lord Henry’s accusation, but she stood her ground.
‘A parent will do anything for her child.’ Mrs Stamford rose to her feet to face him, as fierce as a vixen defending her young. ‘I thought that she would be happier making a more stable marriage here. Settling in a comfortable house with husband and children. Not so far away—so that I could see her and enjoy her happiness and that of my grandchildren. She is all I have and I want only the best for her. But I do not expect you to understand, of course.’
But perhaps he did after the revelations of the past days, he thought. Acquiring a son gave a man a different angle on life. He would never have the right to enjoy his son’s happiness other than from a distance and without recognition. Too many obstacles stood in the way. For the first time he understood in part Mrs Stamford’s dedication to Eleanor’s happiness.
‘One thing.’ He looked up from the letters, still folded in his hands, with a keen glance. ‘When I had gone, did you throw Eleanor into Thomas’s path?’
‘No, I did not.’ Mrs Stamford folded her lips in some indignation. ‘I am no fool, my lord. I wanted her to marry well. She was a beautiful débutante, but not even I could look as high as a Marquis for her. It was a great surprise when he offered for her.’
‘Had she known Thomas long?’
‘No. A mere matter of weeks. What does that matter?’
It all fit together in his mind, with a sharp click of certainty, the final pieces in the puzzle. Thomas had indeed rescued Eleanor, a victim of his own thoughtlessness and her mother’s meddling. His heart went out to Eleanor, who had been unaware of the forces that had worked so successfully against their union.
‘It does not matter at all,’ he now admitted. ‘I am grateful for your telling me. And returning these.’
‘I regret the pain I caused. She was devastated when she thought you had left her. And she is distraught now’
‘Yes. I imagine.’
‘I know not what will ease her pain. Will you tell her of the letters? Of my part in it?’
‘I must.’
‘She is at Lady Painscastle’s now.’ Mrs Stamford walked to the door, the tea forgotten, her errand complete. ‘Judith is holding an at home. Eleanor will not be back until late. I doubt that she will choose to stay the night—not with the child here.’
‘Then I must wait.’
‘I am very sorry, my lord.’ Mrs Stamford waited for a reply, but there was none, Lord Henry’s concentration being fixed on the letters, the answer to all his uncertainties, held tightly in his hands.
Eleanor returned at a late hour from the Painscastles’ town house. Word had begun to spread, discussing with intense enjoyment the Baxendale débâcle in every salacious detail. Eleanor had known as soon as she had been bowed into the room by Judith’s butler, aware of the lightening of the atmosphere. Whispering, yes, but no hostile glances. Discreet asides behind fashionable fans, but no one thought to snub her. Judith had hugged her in delight, demanding a thorough gossip when time and opportunity allowed. Lady Beatrice had descended on her in full sail of mulberry silk and old lace, and had kissed her cheek. So pleased, dearest Nell! And so brave of you to face all the past unpleasantness with such composure and assurance. Eleanor had felt a sudden urge to shriek her fears and hurt to the room at large. How shocked they would be! But of course she did not, playing the role assigned to her of gracious lady of impeccable lineage and connections. She was back in the fold, after all. Accepted as Marchioness of Burfo
rd. Welcomed by the ton as one of their own as if her integrity had never been questioned, never been in doubt.
She knew that she should be rejoicing.
She returned to Park Lane, exhausted after her emotional day. By now her righteous fury had calmed to leave her aware only of the wretched emptiness that had assailed her since Hal had stalked from her presence, having accused her of disloyalty and trickery and malicious deceit. Nothing could fill the hollowness, just as nothing could prevent his words from circling over and over again in her brain. A headache lurked behind her eyes. She looked in on the baby, who slept in innocent ignorance of the impossible rift between his parents, then rang for her maid to help her disrobe. She was in process of stripping off a pair of elbow-length lavender kid evening gloves when a light knock was followed immediately by Lord Henry’s entrance without further ceremony into her bedchamber.
Maid and mistress both looked up in amazement at the lack of ceremony. Eleanor’s anger found reason for instant and tumultuous rebirth. To be accosted in her own bedchamber! Whatever he had to say, she did not wish to hear it! She tightened her lips, but such sentiments were vividly expressed on her lovely face and in the dignified lift of her head—if her visitor had been in any way sensitive to appearance and atmosphere. Lord Henry simply ignored the accusing stares, wasted no words of greeting. He had been waiting far too long.
‘I need a word with your mistress. Meg, is not it? If you would leave us.’
‘I am tired, my lord. Can it not wait until tomorrow?’ Eleanor was anything but accommodating.
‘No.’ Neither was he.
‘Thank you, Meg. You may go to bed.’ Eleanor bowed to a stronger force. ‘I will undress myself.’ Meg curtsied, a nervous glance at his lordship, and left.
‘You should not be here.’ Eleanor smoothed the gloves and placed them carefully in a drawer, relieved to have something to do with her hands.
‘Do you wish me to leave?’
‘Yes.’ She would not look at him, but gave her attention to folding a spangled gauze stole with long fringes.
‘This is the only place where I can be sure of your undivided attention—if you will put away that damned stole!’ The frustration of the long wait surfaced, to be ruthlessly suppressed. Now was not the time for show of temper. This was going to be just as difficult as he had expected.
‘I cannot think what you have to say to me, my lord. You have already destroyed my character and my morals. I think that is enough! I would be grateful if you would leave my room—now, my lord.’
Eleanor turned her back to sit down at her dressing table, raising her hands to remove her necklace.
Henry strode across the room to stand behind her, setting his teeth against her rigid formality. But, of course, he deserved no less. He deserved that she slam the door in his face!
Eleanor’s hands froze in mid-air at his sudden proximity, at the stern set of his features, but she gave no quarter. There was not one spark of encouragement in her severe expression, brows simply raised in frigid enquiry.
‘I will play lady’s maid, if you will allow, my lady.’ He was in control again, equally formal if that was her game, and bent with clever fingers to discover and release the gold catch on the string of sapphires. ‘Not the diamonds, I see.’
‘No.’
He laid the gems on the dressing table. Gently removed a pair of sapphire drops from her ear lobes to join them. Then, as she continued to sit, in frozen immobility, began to remove the clips from her hair until it tumbled in a profusion of curls and waves to her shoulders.
He resisted the urge to touch it, lowering his hands.
She wished that he had not resisted—but would not admit it, to him or herself.
‘I do not need your help.’
His eyes connected with hers in the mirror. What she read there made her heart turn over in her breast, her throat tighten. Regret, certainly. A depth of self-disgust for his previous treatment of her, that too. But also lust. Desire. A fierce and burning passion that threatened to sweep away his careful command of words and actions.
But it did not.
‘Turn around, Nell.’ His voice was gentle. He took a step back from her, allowing her some space.
She watched him in the candle-lit reflection, considered refusing—but feared the result if she did. She would turn to face him as he asked, but did not have to listen or respond or cooperate. She did not have to listen to her senses that whispered intoxicating words of love for this man, that spilled jewels of heat and longing through her blood.
So she turned on the stool, hands folded on her lap, chin raised, her eyes pure ice, mouth set and unsmiling. No—she would not make this easy for him. The pain was still too sharp to be set aside. She doubted that it would ever be healed.
‘What do you want, Hal? We have nothing more between us that needs to be said. Your views of me were made perfectly clear yesterday. Nothing has changed that I am aware.’
‘Nothing is clear between us, Nell.’
She would have risen to her feet, but he put out a hand, the lightest of touches on her arm, to stop her.
‘Eleanor…’
‘I don’t want to know.’
‘I know. And I can hardly blame you, can I? But will you at least hear me out? There is so little time left before I leave.’
There was no change in her expression. She was astounded at her ability to dissemble, to hide her thoughts. He was left uncertain and perhaps for the first time in his life a little afraid of a woman’s response to him.
‘If you must.’ She shrugged a little, pleased with the result, as if it were of no consequence at all.
Taking one of the riskiest gambles of his life, Hal bent to lift Eleanor’s hands from her lap, holding tight when she would have pulled away. And startled her when he sank to one knee before her.
‘No!’ she gasped.
‘Yes! I must. What I said to you yesterday was unforgivable. I would give the whole world to retract those words, but I cannot.’ For the first time in their relationship, she sensed his lack of confidence where she was concerned. ‘This may seem overly dramatic, but it is the only way I can think of to gain your attention, other than throwing myself under the wheels of a passing cab.’ There was no humour in his face, none of the arrogant assurance that the world might see. ‘My words must always lie between us, to my intense regret. I know that I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but must beg it none the less.’
‘Please…’ She tried again to pull her hands from his clasp. And failed.
‘Will you at least listen? That’s all I ask. Then I will leave you and embarrass you no longer.’
He waited, dark head bent, then looked up as she was silent. A little nod of the head was all the encouragement he got. He lifted her fingers to his lips. They were cold against her skin, she noticed, cold as ice.
‘I accused you of so many things. I don’t wish to repeat them. It shames me to think of what I allowed myself to say. I must have been out of my mind to even consider such things.’ His hands tightened on hers, unaware of the strength of the pressure as he remembered his bitter accusations with undiluted horror. ‘I know that Tom is mine. I know that Thomas married you in full knowledge, to save your reputation and cherish the child within the family. I know that you were innocent in all your dealings with him, that to trick or to manipulate is not within your nature. I also know, beyond doubt, that you did not reject me in favour of my brother’s title and wealth. I was so wrong.’ He sighed a little. Forgiveness seemed an impossibility.
‘But why, Hal? Why did you do it? Why did you say all those dreadful things? I had surely given you no cause for such suspicions.’ Eleanor frowned, mouth still set in an uncompromising line, but at least she was listening.
‘So many reasons. None of them good. The worst is that…I allowed Baxendale to colour my view of…of events. He said that you had trapped Thomas by claiming to carry his child. And then when you told me…’
‘I see.’
‘No. I don’t think you do. My reactions were appallingly, dishonourably self-interested. There is no excuse. I did not want the title. Or the weight of responsibility of the family estates. My initial response was to reject them. So I accused you of setting a trap to bind me to you and the inheritance. And by doing so harmed beyond repair the one love of my life.’
‘So rather than be Marquis of Burford, you accused me of dishonour.’ She would not let herself think of his last remarkable statement. But she kept it close, in her heart.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, Hal! How could you? How did such divisions come between us?’
‘Nell… Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?’ As he felt a trembling in her fingers, he decided to put it to the test, to lighten the painful tension that held them so relentlessly apart. ‘I would not wish to kneel at your feet all night, but will do so if it will give me half a chance.’
The resulting half laugh, half sob, gave him the merest touch of hope.
‘Can you not give me the smallest crumb of comfort?’
‘You do not deserve any!’
‘I know it.’ He was instantly sober again, but the painful weight in his chest, which had tortured him and compromised his self-control since their bitter quarrel, loosened a little. ‘Anything that you say to me will not be any worse than the words I have used against myself. Yet I would ask that you have mercy. To know your hatred and contempt is unbearable.’
She made him wait a little longer. Not out of wilful cruelty, but because she needed to know her own feelings before she laid bare her soul. But she would do it. The time was past for hiding thoughts and feelings and she could bear no more secrets. There had been enough in past weeks to last a lifetime.
‘Hal…I love you so much. Nothing will change that.’ His eyes snapped to hers, not expecting such generosity, hardly able to believe it. He held his breath as she continued. ‘How can I not forgive you? I swore that I would not. That if I had to suffer, so would you.’ She laughed, a little sadly. ‘But I love you and need to forgive you. I should have been more open with you… I accused you of rejecting me and your son…’